Chapter Eight Shenanigans
Chapter Eight
Shenanigans
‘Aaargh!’ I scream. Because there really is nothing else you can do when Legolas has just bitten you on the ankle.
‘Hah!’ Leo exclaims with glee. ‘Exactly what you deserve!’
Jack says nothing. He just gives me a look of absolute disgust.
The rest of the Fellowship of the Ring giggle.
Frodo is actually laughing so hard that I think he may have peed himself.
He clearly feels that poking Legolas up the bum was the best decision he’s ever made, given what has happened as a result.
But where’s the professionalism? I was promised professionalism, damn it!
As I desperately try to pull Legolas’s wriggling body away from my ankle before he can savage it any further, I am forced to reflect that I may have made something of a major error.
Allow me to explain:
Annie’s stand-up routine told me I should stop procrastinating, and do something about my problems. Or should I say, our problems. Mine and my best friends’. She told me I should stop putting things off. Okay, then.
And then Bryan and Delta convinced me that getting to the truth of what those problems are is very important. Which also made a whole lot of sense.
I fear the way I have chosen to interpret those pieces of advice has not been particularly constructive . . .
It was such a lovely plan, though. The kind I am well known for.
But everything went wrong when Legolas started savaging my ankle.
That was never part of my grand master plan.
If, at any time in your professional or private life, you feel that having a poodle dressed as Legolas savage your ankle is part of your grand master plan, I suggest you seek medical advice at your nearest opportunity.
Mind you, if I’d done that, then I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, would I?
There should be a much longer road between not wanting to go to a doctor because you’re embarrassed and getting your ankle savaged by a cosplaying poodle, but that is clearly not the case.
The road is very short, and begins with Shenanigans.
Shenanigans (with the capital S, that’s very important) has been an annual tradition for Jack, Leo and me for over ten years now.
With our birthdays all happening in close proximity to one another, it’s always made for a fabulous excuse to bugger off somewhere together for some fun.
We rotate who gets to choose what we do, so that it never becomes boring.
Jack was the one to come up with the name and the concept, but of the three of us, I’ve always been the one to figure out the best ideas. Which is something you’d expect to be the case, given my job.
In fact, both Jack and Leo have tried harder and harder over the years to match my Shenanigans – with limited success.
The crown has never been taken away from me.
If anything, their efforts have backfired the more they have tried to equal me.
There was the Airbnb from hell in France.
And one year Leo arranged a three-day cruise to the Canaries and back, which was like spending seventy-two hours in a washing machine, thanks to the Bay of Biscay being rough as shit the entire time.
It’s always better when they both keep things simple, and allow me to do the clever, complicated stuff.
When I’m in charge, Shenanigans has always been a roaring success – even if I do say so myself. The laser-tag weekend, for instance. That was amazing. As were the two nights in the Scottish castle, where we lived like lords of the manor for a weekend.
Whatever I’ve arranged for Shenanigans in years gone by, it’s always gone down very well with my two best friends, and has thus become something both of them look forward to greatly, when it comes around to my turn.
I’m afraid that this year I have rather taken advantage of this trust to do something that I very probably shouldn’t have.
‘Get him off me!’ I squeal. You’d think a small poodle would be easy to extract from your ankle, wouldn’t you?
Not this one, though. Legolas has jaws like a bloody vice. The wriggling little sod must be part limpet.
Frodo is now doubled over with laughter. Unbelievable. He’s the one responsible for my plight! He’s the one who poked Legolas up the bum and sent him into this irrational rage. This is all Frodo’s fault!
No, it bloody isn’t. The only person responsible for this mess is you, Charlie King. This idiotic scheme was all your idea. Now shut up and pull harder before it breaks the skin!
This is unfortunately not something I can readily disagree with.
. . . but it seemed like a great idea at the time.
It honestly did.
I figured it would be a great way to confront trauma, in a strong and effective manner, and thereby get over it nice and quickly. No more procrastinating. No more putting things off. Understand the internal personal truths, deal with them – and move on!
You see? I’m only following the advice people have given me. I can’t really be blamed for what has transpired.
Stop looking at me like that.
‘Ow! Bloody hell! Get it off me!!’ I screech again.
But nobody comes to my aid, because the Fellowship of the Ring are all too busy giggling their heads off, and my two best friends have no intention of helping me, because of what I’ve done to them here today, on the uplands of Dartmoor National Park.
Because that’s where all this happening. Did I forget to mention that?
I’ve somehow manufactured a situation where a small poodle is savaging my ankle in front of a group of laughing children, all dressed as the Fellowship of the Ring.
On Dartmoor. Miles away from the nearest first aid kit.
I appear to have lost my bloody mind.
I found them on one of the online catalogue services I subscribe to for work.
Tall Poppies Talent Agency is one of the many child talent agencies that exist across the country. This one was close enough to Dartmoor to suit my purposes quite nicely.
I wanted to give Leo the chance to face his fears, you see. I wanted him to be able to face up to the Fellowship of the Ring again in a way that would allow him to move on from his trauma.
But because I am a very considerate friend, I didn’t want it to be too much of a challenge for him. I didn’t want him to be too scared, so . . .
You see? Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?
And agency owner Poppy Mulbray was more than happy to accommodate my wishes – no matter how ridiculous they sounded.
As long as I passed a thorough security check, found and bought the costumes myself, arranged transport in the minibus there and back, and agreed to have her along as a chaperone, I could certainly employ nine members of her little troop of stars for my purposes.
It would just cost me. An awful lot. Especially at such short notice.
But I was very pleased to pay Poppy a vast sum of money and put my scheme into motion. Because I am a man who can organise things at short notice. Because I am a man who can get things done, when I really want to.
And, more accurately, because I am an ocean-going, five-star, gold-plated idiot.
My poor savaged ankle is testament to that.
I shouldn’t complain, really. Having Poodlelas savage my extremities is probably a very suitable punishment for tricking my best friends into coming out into the middle of nowhere for a spot of extreme confrontational therapy.
. . . which – as I have now repeatedly said in an attempt to make myself feel better – sounded like a great idea at the time.
That time being several gin and tonics deep on an otherwise dull and depressing Tuesday evening, all alone in my flat.
The whole extravagant notion sounded like an idea that absolutely played to my strengths. A big, bold, beautiful event – organised by someone who knows how to bring things together quickly, and spectacularly.
Visiting Zitana and the O’Dowds didn’t accomplish anything really positive, because I was too passive. I just arranged a meeting with someone who I thought could help . . . and went along to it, allowing other people to take the initiative away. I just sat back.
But that’s never been a successful way of doing things for me.
All my greatest triumphs in life have been when I’ve been the one to take the lead. When I’ve been the one to be in control. The one to plan things out properly, and create an unforgettable event for everyone concerned.
As soon as I realised this, I finally understood why neither of my previous attempts to help my friends had done any real good. I was too passive. Not proactive enough.
It has to come from me, doesn’t it?
I have to be the one to put things together.
I am the event organiser. I am the co-ordinator.
Sorry, I am The Co-Ordinator.
It really does need capital letters to sell it properly – and possibly some black sunglasses and a leather jacket.
And who hasn’t heard of desensitisation therapy?
I mean, really, when you get right down to it?
It’s famous.
Everybody knows about it.
You take someone with a phobia or fear, and push them to their limits, by exposing them to it. That helps them conquer that fear, and get past it.
I’ve seen it work. Everybody has. Go on YouTube and have a look!
People who hate snakes get snakes thrust at them. And the snake-hating people get used to the snakes, and their fears go away. So much so that they end up hugging the snakes, and taking them home as pets.
Probably.
Heights!
People who suffer from a fear of heights always get better when they are exposed to being up really high. You just get used to it, don’t you? It becomes familiar. You can’t be scared of something that you’re really familiar with, can you?
Why, I’d imagine there’s nothing you can’t get over a fear of, provided you’re exposed to it for long enough.
Other than death, maybe.
Or thermo-global nuclear warfare.
Furthermore . . . how well would you get over a phobia if you were exposed to it in a really big way? Like, if they threw a really big snake at you, or made you stand at the top of the Burj Khalifa?